


Awake

by woollen_pharaohs



Category: True Detective
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Visions, suggestion of possible character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 17:09:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1355173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woollen_pharaohs/pseuds/woollen_pharaohs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rust shouldn't always trust his visions, but it's harder when he's sober, when the visions are so vivid that they're allegorical.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Awake

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jonathanscrane](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=jonathanscrane).



> This work is dedicated to jonathanscrane (tumblr) for her blog, her fanmixes and graphics, which ultimately inspired me to write this fic.

"How do you do it Rust?" Marty asks one time, passenger seat, desolate highway.

Rust glances at Marty, his partner's eyes squinting to gaze out the front window. The man's gonna get eye cancer if he keeps forgetting his sunglasses.

"Do what?" Rust asks flatly.

"Sit here, all the fucking time," Marty, fiddles with his seatbelt, click in, click out.

"Watch the trees go by, the towns, the people, just think about it all whipping passed, they're a facet of your life as minute as we are a particle moving through theirs."

Marty says nothing for a while, Rust wonders if he's trying it out.

"I know, let's have some music on hey?"

Marty reaches for the stereo, but Rust slaps his hand away.

"No, no music. Not while I'm driving."

"Well lemme drive. Who, who decided you were driving anyway? Whose idea was that?"

"Yours,"

"Yeah well, I changed my mind. You'll probably have some fucking vision and crash the car on me."

No questions asked, Rust swings the steering wheel to the right, slams on the break. Rust gets out swiftly, neatly, seat belt withdraws, snaps against the window as it winds up. He rounds the front of the car and meets Marty at his door before Marty can even step a foot out.

Marty squints, tries to read Rust, knowing in the end it's gonna be futile. He kicks the door open, uncaring of Rust's closeness, and slithers out.

Hand on the corner of the car door, "God damn it Rust, you're a fucking teenager d'ya know that?"

"Speak for yourself," Rust says gruffly.

 

There's a dilapidated church way out in the middle of nowhere, it's all he can see against fields of thirsty crops. Rust walks toward it. It lurches forward with each step, a quick magnification. Only a metre away now and from an invisible source, water begins to fall around it, runs over the broken roof, down the walls, bounces off the dry soil.  His shoes and socks becoming wet, Rust reaches for the doors but the pressure of the water slams away his shaking hand. A burn of pain like that first taste of alcohol.

He tries the door again, tentatively pushing fingers through gushing water but this time it feels like sheets of silk falling against his skin. He pushes the door open easily, walks through. The door slams loudly behind him, echoes throughout the hall. There are sections where the walls have rotted away to nothing but it is as if there is some kind of science fiction force field around the church, preventing the waterfall from touching holy ground.

A figure flickers down the aisle, like a shadow in a thunderstorm, there for a fraction of a second, then camouflaged against the sky. Only, there's no light flashing, natural or manmade, and as Rust walks closer to the altar, the figure flashes again, collapses to the floor. He looks out where the stain glass windows are meant to be but all he sees is the river styx, not sure which way is up or down.

Stepping closer, the figure solidifies into something tangible, a person, a child, a small girl, huddled on the ground. Rust doesn't want to see it but his body, magnetised to it, magnifies the girl, closer, closer. The sound of the water floods his ears, his throat as dry as the drought stricken earth.

Rust rolls the body over.

Sophia.

 

"Stop the car," Rust coughs, spluttering.

"What, why?" Marty says, breaking out of his own daze.

Rust reaches for the car door, starts to open it.

"Jesus Christ Rust!" Marty shouts, slams his foot on the brake.

Rust lurches forward, head sways, water slushing in his mind. The car has practically stopped so he clambers out, slips, a stone catches in the heel of his shoe. Marty's out of the car as quickly as Rust, rounds the front. Rust clutches onto the car door for support but it swings and Marty catches him.

"Man, what's with you today?"

Rust breathes heavily, curses. He leans back on the back seat car door, runs a hand through his hair.

"Marty you got any cigarettes?"

Marty quirks an eyebrow, what stupid fucking question is that? He pulls out a carton from his trouser pocket, hands a cigarette to his partner.

Hand unsteady, Rust fiddles with lighting it up, sits it in the spot in his mouth where a cigarette belongs. He likes to think he's used to the visions, that they're a part of his daily televised news, a regular disturbance in his sight. He is used to them, mostly, but they're harder to ignore when he feels fully immersed in them, like he's sleeping with his eyes open and the images are so strong, so heavy with allusions that he's enraptured by them.

"One day, they'll be long gone," Rust says, takes a drag of the cigarette.

Marty does a sort of half nod like he fully understands what Rust is on about.

"Good thing we swapped right, coulda ended pretty bad with you in front of the wheel," Marty laughs light heartedly.

Rust chews the cigarette in his mouth, eyes fixated on a point in the distance. Dried blood on Sophia's face shimmers in the back of his mind, "Mm, it was a bad one."

Marty scratches the back of his neck, "is there ... anything I can... do?"

Rust doesn't answer, just drags on the cigarette, probably an answer in itself. Marty knows already that if anyone else knew about Rust's visions, his job could be compromised, Marty doesn't need reminding of that.

"Are you mad at me or something?" Marty asks, forced loudness.

Rust stands straight, glances briefly at Marty and mirrors Marty's mocking quirk of an eyebrow. He turns to the field before him and pegs his cigarette bud. He doesn't see where it lands but he imagines the embers setting alight the dry grains of crop. A great fire engulfing the land, spreading easily over the thirsty ground, but the hellfire would run out of fuel as quickly as it lit up. There's nothing out there, nothing lasting. The settling ash a deviance of life itself.

Marty places his hand on Rust's bicep, a motion meant to jolt him back to reality. Rust gets this feeling like water trickling out of his ears, like he's been swimming long ago and the water has finally got tired of blocking up his hearing. Ash settles on Marty's shoulders and Rust cuts the distance between them and presses his lips against Marty's. Marty's eyebrows fold, but he doesn't complain. His lips taste like tobacco and Rust has the texture of ash on his tongue but it tastes a contradiction; it tastes sweet.

Rust pulls back, straightens his shirt.

 Marty loosens his tie, touches his chin, finger grazing his lips, "you're not having another vision are you?"

"Hope not,"

"Good."

 

Rust stands close to the wall dividing the room up, from here he gets peripheral vision of the windows to his left, the hallway to his right, and his back faced the front door, well, that's part of the danger. He cracks his knuckles, joints feeling loose in his body.

Things have gone rotten for Marty, rotten enough for staying at Rust's place to be Marty's only option. Man's lost control, never had much control in the first place. Men like Marty aren't meant to have so much going on in their lives like he had. Rust's seen the type before, too charismatic for their own good, too bigger heads thinking they deserve more than what they got. Rust probably could have told Marty having affairs wasn't worth his while. Marty probably already knew. Guess that's why nothing more ever happened between them.

The blank wall is meant to be one of the only spots Rust knows he can look at without seeing anything, least when he's sober. When he's on something, there's no escape. Which really makes him wonder, did he forget? Water swells around his feet, that invisible source teaming with shapely force field around his body, a wet suit in the most literal sense. The water creeps up his ankles, his legs, numbing his muscles, blood prickles. It's too cold out here.

Rust knows better to feel guilty about the one time he kissed Marty, to feel sorry for Marty, but he does anyway.

Water at his waist now, covering the tips of his fingers, freezing his bones in place.

He knows better to feel protective of Marty, to feel somewhat responsible, but he does anyway.

Water licks his collarbone, bubbles up his neck, pops in his ears. He cranes his neck high, trying to breathe, take his last breath of air before he's swallowed up.

A source of heat breaks away the water around his waist, weakens his whole body. Water sizzles, evaporates off his skin where the warmth spreads, the vapour tangible only to Rust. The bones in his hands still stone cold, he places them on hot hands, a burn as soothing as warming winter felt fingers against a wood fire.

"Marty..." Rust whispers, a prompt, a hint of a warning.

Marty moves his hands with Rust's, up against his stomach, his chest, down again, "can't sleep?"

"Never,"

Rust stills stands in front of the wall, in front of that spot of betrayal, and in the cool night air his body dries. Internally chilled, exterior hot, clammy. His skin creeps, a lukewarm shiver makes him unsteady. Marty moves his hands down to the waistband of Rust's boxers, slips a finger beneath, grazes the sensitive skin and Rust curves his back into Marty's form.

Rust spreads his palms against the wall for support, "I'm sorry,"

Marty pauses, hesitation in his fingers and Rust can taste the trepidation in Marty's breath, moving passed his ears, "don't be,"

Marty cups Rust's cock, begins to stroke and Rust swallows hard, resisting the urge to grind his ass against Marty. That's the point of partners, they know what you're thinking, or at least think along the same lines. Marty helps Rust out of his boxers, then presses his body against his partner's, begins working on Rust's cock with more focus, more vigour and Rust closes his eyes because he doesn't need to be able to see to feel this good, to feel Marty's throbbing cock against his ass, Marty's lips on his shoulder, a bit of teeth wasn't ever a bad thing.

Being able to taste what he sees usually goes hand in hand but with Marty, Jesus, it's something else. He tastes reality, and it's not bittersweet or depressing or anything like they say it is. With Marty wrapped around him, warming him up, teasing the pleasure out of Rust's body, reality tastes like that first time he tasted ash in his mouth. It's sweet and good and Rust doesn't feel like it's a lie when he thinks that with all his senses, that kissing Marty is right.

Rust feels a motion behind him and moans, a noise only known by one other person. He bites his lip, arches into Marty as he comes into his partner's hand, an expulsion of held back pleasure. Marty shudders behind him, in slow motion Rust might've been able to feel every spasm of muscle, as Marty comes shortly after. Rust heaves against the wall, palms still outspread, the only thing keeping up upright. He presses his forehead against that spot, now void in his books of visionless parts of time.

Marty leaves briefly, returns with a tea towel, cleans Rust's back.

"I'm sorry," Marty says, heartfelt but he cups Rust's ass nevertheless.

"Don't be," Rust laughs.

Rust closes his eyes. There's no way he'll be able to look at that spot on the wall the same way again.

 

Rust has been alive for so long he's dumbfounded he still hasn't recognised the highs and lows of his life enough to predict his future. The high points only last for so long before the low points kick in and honestly, Rust hadn't meant to, he knew Mags was just using him to get back at Marty. Wasn't that what he was doing too?

Since then the time in his circle of life got stuck, lodged in the low point section and he hasn't been able to come out of it. He's been working on the case, not much you can do without access to police reports. And then, nothing. He never did get that tail light fixed on his truck.

So when Gilbough and Papania start looking into him he knows it's about time got back on track. He can feel it in his soul, it's working its way up to a high point, and there's no way Rust is gonna go back after that.

 

Rust reckons he's a different person each decade. He's a lover and a father, albeit naive, in the 80s, he's a hard worker, a philosopher in the 90s. God, who even knew leading up to the supposed end of the world, two years later than the predicted date; 2002. Ten years on in the 21st Century, Rust has been nothing more than a loner, a drunk, a philosopher at a bar in the middle of nowhere. Not that he was complaining, it's just the way things are.

Walking into the sad office of Hart Investigative Solutions, he's not exactly comforted by the thought that Private Investigator Martin Hart wasn't fairing as well as he'd imagined. He doesn't feel pride or anything, his life's just as sad. But when it comes to Marty, well, he's truly hoping time has eased the pain, as they say. It works for regular people, so it's gotta work for Marty. Rust is hopeful, he's only ever been hopeful for Marty.

Rust treads carefully, asks the right questions. First is to get him back in the case, that's not the hard part. It's the times where they're stuck looking through a bunch of papers, meaningful or meaningless, depends how crazy you really wanna get. It's times where they've been in his office right up until the parking lot's empty of any other car, besides the one that's been there for months, forgotten. No tow truck's been bothered to take it away. When things get dark and quiet and that bomb of a car's weighing on their thoughts, and there's nothing case related to talk about, how can he not want to get to know what the man's been up to?

After all this time, Marty's actually surprised when Rust takes an interest in him. It's frustrating. Marty's lies taste as simple as his own. No good faring man's got an office like this. Rust doesn't sugar coat his story, there's nothing glamorous in the first place, but Marty eats it up, doesn't know if it's a good thing or a bad thing that Marty thinks he's just the same.

Rust is usually okay to be in the same room as Marty, to exist within the same space as him just as people, as human beings, but as the case moves on, draws closer to the end, it's harder to sit by and think that after the case... well, there's not gonna be an afterwards for Rust.

 

Marty makes the connection with the green paint and the green ears and it's like old times, making discoveries in cases and that light spreads over Marty's face like he's a god damn fucking puppy, he's done something himself, done it good and right.

Rust compares the photographs, cigarette wasting away in his fingers, a million thoughts surface in his mind; finding the guy, finishing the case, but mostly Marty being spot on, Marty connecting their biggest clue, Marty coming back in his life and turning the tables and all he can say is, 'fuck," because that about sums it up.

Rust's body tenses up when Marty slips his arms around Rust's waist, a familiar shadow from long ago.

Rust shakes Marty's arms off, turns to face him. Rust looks right in Marty's eyes, puts on his best piercing eyes look.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Rust asks, voice devoid of emotion.

His throat tightens, he's suddenly parched for a beer, or fifty, just to drown out any hint of hope that might arise in him, there's no time left for that. And well, to block out the chances of seeing something. The visions he has, they're still a part of him. They always will be, but God, they can be the sexiest kind of drug when they want to be. Diluting them with alcohol's the only way to control them, Rust has found, or at least it helps him keep them at arm's length, far enough away that he won't be distracted by them.

"I thought you wanted this," Marty says, eyes droopy like he's trying to be alluring or some shit.

The glass of the office walls warp in the corners of Rust's eyes, they bend and shatter, and Rust can taste the dust and sand of the shattered fragments rolling into the carpet. But when he looks straight at the glass, it readjusts to its normal, sane position, mocking him once he looks away again.

Marty steps in close, but Rust steps back, bumping up against the wall, ungraceful.

Marty gets this hurt look flash across his face and he says, "Man, you don't deserve to be such an asshole to me considering."

" _Considering_?" Rust fumes, glass smashing into shards in his peripheral vision, "Considering you decided you still wanted Maggie, beautiful, lovely mother -"

"Don't you talk about Mags -"

"Listen to me Marty, she's a good woman, and you ruined her more than once,"

"I'm done with Mags."

"Are you? Because you told me you were done ten years ago, you _should have_ been done ten years ago, but you just can't keep away from fucking crazy women."

"Shut the fuck up Rust," Marty says, spitting. His face close to Rust but out of anger rather than passion.

" _Considering_ you ruin everyone's lives, anyone who's ever crossed paths with you Marty, talk about a circle of violence and degradation. Considering that, I think I 'get' to be an asshole to you."

Rust can hear it now, the shattering glass, a clatter of white noise in his ears. His face feels hot, ears numb and he waits for Marty to sock him in the face. He stares him down, teeth grit, but the punch doesn't come. Marty's anger fades as the glass rebuilds itself, time rewinds and the glass is intact, perfectly transparent.

"Stop, I fucking get it Rust, I'm the asshole. I get it, and I'm sorry. You know who I am, you know who I am more than anyone on this fucking dead planet. I don't know what's good or bad to keep, eyes too big for my stomach. That kind of shit."

Rust is silent, a twitch in his eye. He's still waiting for that impact, that physical impact, knuckles locked into jaw, that kind of action that gets blood on his face, a bruise, something to prod at, like those wounds Marty left him long ago. They fade and his skin healed and he could move on. But Marty spilling it out to him, well, that's worse than a punch.

"I just thought that, well you know all this time, we both got rights to be angry at each other, but I just thought that I wouldn't ever be able to talk to you again, you know, like old times. That I wouldn't be able to feel things for you, and shit, I fucking missed you. You don't know how fucking lonely I've been, and then this Lang case gets pulled back into my life and you come back with it and I'm over the fucking moon. Because I get to work with you again, I get to be with you again. Shit, I know you wanna be the one who talks too much but don't cry."

Rust slips down the wall, leans his head back, tears soaking his moustache.

When he speaks, his voice shakes, "you're not allowed to sweet talk your way out of this Marty."

"I'm not trying to Rust, I'm telling you the truth," Marty says, crouches down in front of Rust.

Rust hasn't cried like this since Sophia died. It's ugly, he's disgusted in himself but he can't stop the tears coming, his body from shaking, hitching in breaths, and he doesn't flinch away when Marty wraps his arms around him. Rust clutches onto Marty's arms, tries to stop crying, truly fails.

Rust rests his forehead on Marty's shoulder, confesses in a raspy voice, "I missed you so fucking much."

Rust can just taste Marty's eyebrow quirking, "you're not having no vision are you? Rustin Cohle being heartfelt is not a thing I'm familiar with."

"Fuck, I hope not."

"Good. Now let's go catch this serial killing asshole."

 

 

 

 


End file.
